


the sighs of water lilies

by bluebacchus



Series: the verge of remembrance [4]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Happy ending (FINALLY), Healing, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Separation Anxiety, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Topson, mentions of disordered eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22423432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/pseuds/bluebacchus
Summary: Their Navy pensions aren't much, but they're enough to start over.
Relationships: Sophia Cracroft/Lady Ann Ross/Sir James Clark Ross (minor), Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Series: the verge of remembrance [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1472306
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	the sighs of water lilies

**Author's Note:**

> I have to give credit where it is due, and a part of this fic is inspired by janie_tangerine's [a nation of two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/846370) which is probably my favourite ASOIAF fic ever written. That, in turn, is inspired by a Japanese film called Dolls.
> 
> There's a wee bit of violence in this one (someone gets slapped) and some mentions of vomiting, but it's not nearly as heavy as in the previous part.
> 
> Title from the esteemed E.A. Poe's Silence: a Fable

_Restored! Returned! The lost are borne_

_On seas of shipwreck home at last:_

_See! In a fire of praising burns_

_The dry dumb past, and we_

_Our life-day long shall part no more._

-W.H. Auden, “Warm are the Still and Lucky Miles”

His mistake is made only once.

It happens on the first day Edward wakes up feeling happy since leaving England in 1845. He startles awake with no apparent explanation; Thomas is fast asleep beside him, curled up with his forehead pressed against Edward’s upper arm. Through their window, he can see the sun begin to peek above the horizon, not yet high enough to bathe Thomas’s sleeping body in a halo of light. He looks beautiful like this, Edward thinks. When he sleeps, the practiced smile falls away, as does the look of concern he wears when Edward tosses and turns next to him, occasionally rising to gag and heave into the ever present bucket. No; like this, Thomas is freed from the obligation of caring for him.

Rising silently, Edward shuts the curtains so the light won’t wake Thomas. He deserves a morning to himself. Edward dresses and leaves the room, hoping to catch the kitchen staff before they leave for the Sunday market.

* * *

Edward makes it back to the house quickly; he wouldn’t be surprised if Thomas was still abed. The lemon scones he carries in the paper bag have only just gone cold (a fair price to pay; he paid a visit to the horses stabled on the grounds and fed them all but two of the apples he purchased at the market) but they still smell delicious. Edward feels the best he has since arriving at the Ross’s country house to convalesce. He wants to tell Thomas. Next weekend, they can both wake early and go to the market together, picking out the reddest apples to feed themselves and the sweetest ones for the horses. They could feed the horses together, then, Edward showing Thomas how to hold his hand out just so and then leaning on each other, laughing, when Thomas sees the horse’s teeth approaching his hand and drops the apple into the hay.

Lost in thought, Edward pushes open the front door and limps inside. He hadn’t strapped his leg on tight enough this morning- it is a task that Thomas insists on doing himself every morning- and it was rubbing at the base of his knee. Still, it isn’t enough to dampen his mood and he lets the smile play across his face as he hangs up his coat and listens for Thomas’s light steps to greet him.

* * *

When Thomas wakes alone, his stomach turns over in his belly and his heart begins to beat a rapid pattern against his ribs. He doesn’t dress. Instead, he grabs Edward’s dressing gown, throws it over his nightclothes, and leaves their bedroom with the untied coat flapping behind him.

The first place Thomas looks is the garden. Edward had expressed interest towards taking his meals outdoors when he felt up to the task of removing himself from bed. Perhaps he was feeling better and was waiting for Thomas in the garden. On his way down the stairs, bare feet silent against the flooring, Thomas imagines what he will say when he finds his Edward waiting outside like a real suitor. _What, no flowers?_ Or perhaps y _ou need not court me, Commander Little. I’m already yours._ It doesn’t matter, not when Thomas opens the back door and finds the garden empty.

He checks the kitchen next. It’s occupied by only a maid, smoking a cigarette which she hurriedly stamps out when Thomas opens the door. Thomas gives her a small smile that he hopes is reassuring and closes the door. The pattern repeats. Edward is not in the drawing room or the library, nor is he in the privy or the dining room or any of the guest bedrooms. Thomas checks their room once again, just to be certain before his last glimmer of hope gives way to panic.

The bed looks just as he left it: unmade, sheets rumpled and slept-in on both sides. The blankets are piled on the side where Thomas sleeps and where Edward, more often than not, migrates towards until he meets the morning curled up against Thomas’s back. In this moment, staring at their empty bed ( _their_ bed, the bed they share, the bed they make love in, the bed where Edward promised to stay with him), Thomas wonders if Edward has finally decided to leave him behind for good.

* * *

“Where were you?” Thomas asks from the entrance hall. He’s angry; that much Edward can tell without looking. He looks anyways, because it’s Thomas and despite everything, he’s just as lovely to behold as he was at the beginning. Thomas is barefoot, with uncombed hair and Edward’s dressing gown tied loosely at his waist. He looks like the madman Edward was accused of being when he was sent away.

“At the market. I got scones.” Edward waves the paper bag playfully. “Are you alright, Tom? Are you feeling well?”

He can barely get the last words out before Thomas is in front of him and his cheek is smarting from the slap that Thomas had just laid on his face. With one hand still holding the paper bag and the other pressed against the prickling heat of his red cheek, Edward stares at the man in front of him, unable to comprehend what had just passed between them.

And then Thomas crumples before his eyes, angry façade cracking and falling away into a look of horror as he realizes what he’s done.

“I’m sorry, Edward,” he says. “I’m the worst kind of sorry, really. I didn’t mean to hit you, Ned, I just-“ he stammers before falling forward into Edward and beginning to shake as he hides his face against Edward’s shoulder.

“Tom?”

There are a hundred questions Edward wants to ask. _Are you okay? Was it something I said? Something I did? Are you unhappy with me? Are you unhappy_ because _of me?_ Instead he asks, “Do you want to go back to bed?” and Thomas nods and lets Edward wrap an arm around his waist and navigate the stairs for the both of them.

* * *

“I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“I wanted to surprise you with breakfast,” Edward says. “I’m sorry.”

Thomas looks up from his hands where they lay folded in his lap. “I can’t keep you in my sights forever. I know that, yet as soon as you’re gone I have trouble believing you will come back.”

Edward sits on the edge of the bed next to Thomas. “I wouldn’t mind being your kept man.” He smiles, a quirk of the lips that he tries to contain but can’t, not with the idea of being cared for and adored like he was Thomas’s wife.

“You’d have to learn to cook,” Thomas says.

“I’ve cooked for you before.”

“You fed me raw meat when I was dying.”

“Ah, so you admit that my culinary skills saved your life?”

Thomas laughs at that, a shy, quiet laugh that does nothing to cover up the harried look of anxiety on his face.

“I’m sorry I left without telling you,” Edward says after a minute’s silence.

“I’m dreadfully sorry I overreacted.”

Edward reaches over and takes Thomas’s hand. “I would never leave you, Thomas Jopson. I won’t. I can’t. Not again.”

Thomas nods, tight-lipped and quiet. Edward knows he doesn’t believe him, that to Thomas words are simply promises waiting to be broken rather than the binding force that Edward intends them to be. He doesn’t know what to say to make Thomas believe in his devotion.

“What’s in the bag?” Thomas nods towards the brown bag on the bedside table.

“Just scones,” Edward says. With his thumb, he strokes the back of Thomas’s hand.

“May I?”

Edward passes the bag to Thomas. The bag crinkles as it’s opened and a pastry is withdrawn. Thomas bites a quarter of the scone off and chews for an eternity.

“Lemon?”

Edward nods. “They’re your favourite.”

“Yes,” Thomas says, swinging his legs up and under him on the bed. “You remembered.”

Edward meets his eyes and places a hand on his knee. “Of course.”

* * *

They’re out together when Edward gets the idea. It’s not his idea- not truly, not when the foresight of his dreams grants him visions of the unavoidable future- but he knows that whatever it is, it’s his. He tugs on Thomas’s sleeve, pulling him through the crowd of vendors to a small stall covered in pieces of exquisite silk fabrics. Thomas doesn’t question him, just begins to trail his hands over the fine, smooth cloth. His eyes linger on a bolt of finely woven silk in a shade of blue just darker than his eyes. If Edward were a bolder man, he would buy every inch of it and wrap it around Thomas like he was dressing a gift. Instead, while Thomas is distracted watching the Chinese tailor delicately repair a brocade gown, Edward asks the woman for a length of silk rope.

He presents it like he did in his dream; once they are hidden behind closed doors in the bedroom that has become theirs without question, Edward pulls the rope out of its paper bag and lets it drape over his arms, one braided end brushing the floor. Wordlessly, he loops the rope around itself and holds it out to Thomas.

Thomas looks at him, reservation clear in his face, before he accepts the coil.

“Oh,” he breathes, surprised by the smoothness against his hands where he had felt only roughly twisted hemp before.

“It’s not an obligation. It doesn’t have to be anything, if you don’t want it,” Edward says. “I just thought it might help.”

Thomas doesn’t quite understand, not yet, so Edward lets the silk cord fall from his arms across the floor and he wraps the free end around his middle, tying the knot tight enough that it won’t come undone.

“Like an anchor line?” Thomas asks quietly. He is still holding the rope, running the pad of his forefinger against the direction of the braid.

Edward shakes his head. “A lifeline. A reassurance you’ll always be able to find me.”

Thomas doesn’t quite smile, but he bites at his lower lip like he used to in the Arctic, back when falling in love brought with it a sense of shame and each smile they shared was tinged with guilt. They hadn’t had the chance to fall in love again, not properly, without starvation and fear robbing them of everything but the present.

Thomas slips the loop of rope over his head and tightens it above the falls of his trousers. He closes his eyes and pulls the rope through his hands, quick enough that it would leave a burn if it were the sort of rope they were used to. The silk is smooth and almost slippery, and it isn’t long before Thomas’s hands bump up against Edward’s belly.

“Found you,” he whispers, and falls into Edward’s arms.

* * *

James doesn’t say anything when he comes home from London and finds Edward Little tethered to a tree. Little is sitting in the garden, two empty cups of tea on the table in front of him. His leg is propped up on the vacant chair, but he lowers it when he notices James’s arrival.

“Have the ladies kidnapped your Mr. Jopson?” he asks, sitting opposite Edward.

Edward laughs, and tugs on the rope tethering him to a nearby tree. James notices that it’s not tied to the trunk, like he thought, but disappears deeper into the woods.

“This is new,” he says, gesturing at the rope. An unseen force on the other side tugs back a little too hard, and Edward nearly tips out of his chair. He laughs again.

“And so is that,” James says, smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh.”

Edward places a hand on the rope tied around his midsection. “They’re bird watching, today. Yesterday it was flowers. We’ve set up a challenge for you in the dining room, in fact. Can the esteemed Commander Ross guess which floral arrangement belongs to which houseguest? I’m certain you’ll be surprised.”

“It’s nice to see you in such cheer, Edward.”

“Well, I have to make certain you’ll miss me when we’re gone.”

James sighs. “We’ve talked about this, Edward. You’re more than welcome. You both are.”

“I’ve found a house. A cottage, really.”

“Edward, there’s no rush, really. Ann and Sophia will be devastated.”

Edward watches as the slack in the rope increases, and soon Thomas and Ann emerge, with Sophia clinging onto Thomas’s back as he carries her past the edge of the trees. The three of them are caked to their knees in mud and Sophia is missing a boot, yet their peals of laughter speak of a pleasant time in the woods with their birds. The rope snags on a branch, and Thomas jerks backwards, dangerously close to dumping both him and Sophia on the ground. Edward hears him call to Ann to untangle the rope, and he turns to James.

“I want to give him a home.”

James watches the trio stumble across the garden towards them, and he nods.

“Does he know?”

Edward smiles and lifts a hand to wave to Thomas. “Not yet.”

* * *

They’re sitting in front of the fire when Edward asks. The spring is warm, but the heat doesn’t linger long after the sun goes down. The night air is fresh on Edward’s face when he turns it away from the surging heat of the bonfire to look at Thomas.

His features are lit by the flickering flame as he stares into it, chasing imagined shapes and images across the floating ash and curling smoke. Edward can see the light reflected in Thomas’s bright eyes, and there’s no way he _can’t_ ask.

“Tom,” he says. The rope falls in coils between their chairs. Thomas tears his gaze from the fire to look Edward in the eye.

“Tom,” he starts again, “I want a life with you. A proper one. One where we can love each other without fear and without the weight of the past hanging over us. I don’t want to be Lieutenant Little, or Commander Little, or anything except yours. I just want to be yours.”

Edward takes a deep breath and continues, “I found a cottage by the sea, in Margate. I can afford it on my pension- barely- but with yours we can make it a home. I’ve never been good with words, you know that, so if I have to beg you to come away with me, I will do so gladly and without shame.” He stops for a breath before rambling on. “It’s a small town, yes, but we can be quiet, keep to ourselves. We’ll have a beach at our doorstep; we can get a dog, if you like. Two dogs. Maybe a… horse?”

Edward trails off when he notices that Thomas is crying. Or rather, it looks like he’s crying- after a moment, Edward realizes he’s laughing.

Thomas’s face is open and carefree for the first time in a long time, and Edward can’t help but smile when he asks, “What?” and he can’t help but laugh when Thomas nods feverishly and reaches for him.

When they finally catch their breath, they’re both on the cold ground, wrapped together in a wool blanket and pressed together at the shoulder, the hip, the knee.

“Are you going to make an honest man out of me, Mr. Little?”

“I was rather hoping we could start over and both try to be honest men.”

“Yes,” Thomas says, “I’d like that.”

* * *

Like all strange things that linger, their presence becomes accepted over time. At worst, they are pitied- two ex-Navy men, the only survivors of their expedition, broken and made empty by their experiences and only finding comfort in each other; at best, they are a novelty- _we’re having the Navy men over for dinner, do come and meet them, I’m on a first name basis with them and they’re quite respectable gentlemen despite the rumours of them being lovers and really, Mrs. Winegard, could you imagine one of them courting your daughter? It’s better for everyone that they are content to live together in their cottage on the beach_.

They become a regular sight on the streets of Margate, never one without the other. Edward, limp exaggerated so he has an excuse to lean on Thomas for support, and Thomas, who is already on his arm to catch him when he stumbles for real, weak only on the days that he cannot eat.

The days are becoming fewer and farther between, but they still scare Thomas, especially on the days when he wakes alone and, in a panic, tugs on the silk rope tied around his waist. He holds his breath until there is an answering tug from the other side. Sometimes it’s enough for him to drift back to sleep, but other times he crawls over Edward’s side of the bed and follows the coils of rope until he finds him, hunched over on the step outside the door that leads to the beach with a bucket of bile at his feet.

It’s those nights that Thomas doesn’t mind the lack of sleep, and he sits next to Edward and lets him sob into his nightshirt until the sun rises over the sea and the first fishing boats appear over the horizon. When the colours of sunrise begin to paint the walls of their cottage in bright, soft colours, Thomas makes them both tea while Edward cleans himself up, and, without exchanging a word, they migrate to their bedroom.

Thomas makes love to Edward slowly on these mornings, chasing the sunlight that fills their room from the east-facing window across his body with his hands and his mouth, making sure to spend time nuzzling and pressing kisses to each curve and plane of his lover’s body. It’s a long, slow comfort for both of them- for Thomas to hear _I need you_ repeated like a prayer from Edward’s lips and for Thomas to whisper back _I love you_ while trying desperately to pour all the love in his heart into the soft worship of Edward’s body. When the sun finally rises over the horizon, Thomas enters Edward’s body and he sighs; he has been worked open and touched and kissed and nipped for what feels like hours and the constant stretch of penetration is a relief more than a new source of arousal. They end up wrapped together, the rope that connects them falling between their bellies and over the soft quilts that they make love on. Edward traces a hand up Thomas’s back, where the knot of the rope feels as natural to touch as the golden skin it covers, up to the back of his neck where he pulls Thomas’s head down to his.

“Thank you,” Edward gasps, forehead pressed against Thomas’s, and Thomas smiles and kisses him, and suddenly there is no Arctic, no Terror, no Rescue Camp. The past fades away like the hazy dawn outside, and it is just them, present in their bodies and in their minds; in their pleasure and in their devotion; home at last.

**Author's Note:**

> fin.


End file.
